


universally acknowledged truth

by variable_fourteen



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Fluff, Love Confessions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-06 12:49:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17345528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/variable_fourteen/pseuds/variable_fourteen
Summary: “Ford, what do you want from me?”“Just tell me. Say it.”





	universally acknowledged truth

“You love me.” Ford’s voice halts your low duet with the radio. It is not a question; there is no gentle lift in his tone. 

Your yellow gloved hand drops the lasagna pan you were scrubbing and the sponge falls from your grasp, landing with a loud smack on the murky water filling the sink. It splashes you but you don’t notice. His words are echoing through your head, crisp, terrifying, and almost unreal. 

Why is he doing this? Working with Ford this last year had been everything you wanted. Chasing paranormal entities, encyclopedic documenting of novel species, having adventures for a living. And him. 

He was right, of course. Like he always is. You loved him deeply and for some time. It had taken a few months for you to name the feeling but it had been there for longer than you cared to admit, even to yourself. 

Silence blooms, pressing against you until your shoulders slump forward and your arms drop dead at your sides. Water rolls off the glove on your right hand and drips steadily onto the laminate floor. 

You wish he would say something. You wish he would sense your misery, your embarrassment, and leave well enough alone. But you know him. In your mind’s eye you can see him staring at you with furrowed brows and sharp eyes. He won’t stop now that he’s decided he wants to know. Fine. You would give in.

“I-.” Your voice comes out reedy and he cuts you off immediately.

“Please look at me.” He sounds different, unsure and loud in the empty kitchen. 

God you don’t want to. Don’t want to see what’s happening in that big brain of his. He’s so easy to read and you don’t want to identify pity or, worse, disgust plastered on his features. Ford can be cruel. Never on purpose, but you’ve watched him be offhandedly mean with his twin, with the guy working at the hardware store, with tourists at the shack. Maybe the tourists deserved it but otherwise. Thirty years in the multiverse must mess a man up and you’re pretty sure he’s never been particularly gifted at reading the room so you figure it’s alright. Just another thing that makes him human. But you cannot even consider being the focus of that unthinking rejection, not from him. 

Slowly you turn to him. He is standing further away than you expected and his gray hair rises up unruly, like he’s been running his fingers through it. Surprised that you obeyed, he clasps his hands behind his back, pushing his sweater covered chest forward haughtily. The pose is a common one, reserved for thinking, always thinking. Sometimes, in your most rebellious moments, you think it’s an act, an attempt to cover up his uncertainties with a physical presence. 

His eyes are wide behind his glasses and look wild in a way you’ve never seen before. They keep flitting over you, stopping for an uncomfortable second on your own and then away again. You don’t know what to do.

“I’m sorry.” It just comes out and you glance up at him before staring blankly at the wet drips on the floor. You don’t know if your feelings have ruined everything. Maybe he feels the same way, the signs were sort of there, but how can you be sure? He’s never spoken with you about romance, a clear gap in your extensive knowledge of him, and the prospect of sacrificing your friendship or even professional relationship is too horrible. You peel your gloves off for something to do. 

“What do you mean?” You force yourself to look at him when he speaks. His expression has changed, mouth dropping open and eyes narrowed.

You bite your lip and pick at the dry cuticle on your right hand. Suddenly you want to cry.

“Please. Say something.” His voice has an edge; it shivers on the please and when you look up you realize he’s moved a few feet closer. 

“Ford, what do you want from me?” 

“Just tell me. Say it.”

You inhale. You can’t look at him. 

“I.” Your heart races and you can feel the heat crawling up your neck to your cheeks. You will do what he asks, of course. You can’t stop yourself. 

“I love you.” 

He gasps out loud and then words begin tumbling from his mouth. 

“I was right. I had thought. The way you were watching me harvest the fungal specimen from the crystal cave today. And last week when you were cleaning that gremgoblin scratch on my arm. And on the Strawberry Moon when we sat on the shore for four hours and you listened to me point out the constellations. I thought. But I wasn’t, I couldn’t be sure. I have never- I had never experienced.” He catches himself.

“I read Pride and Prejudice.” he says it almost accusingly. You let out a strained laugh and his mouth pulls into an indulgent smile before he bites his lower lip.

“I remembered the book from my adolescence. My mother owned it and I’m pretty sure Stanley read it once in secret. Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth. A guide to the idealized romantic relationship. I was desperate. I understand it is a work of fiction, but I needed some form of confirmation and all the quizzes online seemed to be ghost-written by Mabel and entirely inappropriate for two grown adults. It did help, though. The happiness Austen describes when Elizabeth confesses her love, it convinced me to finally speak with you.”

He walks flush to you, clasping your hands tightly within his warm ones. “I had to know. But, of course, I am unusually inept at this sort of thing. I just could not stop thinking about the way you looked at me. Do you remember? You and I, sitting out in the cold sand. I was explaining how the blueshift of the Andromeda galaxy indicates the impending collision of our galaxies in a few billion years and I caught you looking up at me in the light of the stars. That was when I first suspected.”

Of course you remember. The gentle summer breeze, the comforting sound of the waves on the shore, and the warmth of his sweater against your outer arm. He was beautiful as he gestured wildly towards the icy blue light of the stars and the overwhelming moon sitting low in the sky. 

“What did I look like?” You ask him, flushing.

“Like you cared for me. Cared for what I was saying even though I know it must have been boring for you after hour three. I started to recall and realized you had looked at me like that before. A few times.” He pauses to inhale through his nose. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted to hear you say those words?”

You study his soft face and find the courage to name the emotion you’ve seen crouched between the sincerity and fondness. When you press your lips to his fingers, the hair on his knuckles tickles like you imagined it would.

“I love you.” You speak softly against his skin and watch his eyes widen and his mouth tug into a lopsided smile. Your heart is palpable in every part of you. He untangles your fingers and cups your cheek with one large hand. His head tilts to the side as he scrutinizes you, clearly attempting to memorize the way you look in this precise moment. You wonder if he will try to reproduce it in one of his journals. 

Stanford. You say his name before resting your hand on top of the one holding your face. He looks down at you, searching your eyes, and you give him an encouraging smile. 

“Oh!” He laughs at himself and places his other hand on your face, cradling you gently within his touch. “Of course. Please do not doubt that I love you too.”


End file.
